


Living Sacrifice

by PipMer



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Crossover, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gift Fic, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Actual Character Death, Potterlock, Romance, Squib Mycroft, Temporary Character Death, except for moriarty of course, sherlock POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-02 10:04:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6562123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times Sherlock Holmes lived for John Watson, and one time he gave his life for him.  Potterlock</p>
            </blockquote>





	Living Sacrifice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prettybirdy979](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettybirdy979/gifts).



> prettybirdy979 was one of my first fandom friends. Three years, and she's still here! She must be a masochist. Happy Birthday, Birdy! I hope you like it, and I hope that you are surprised :D
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks go to many people for beta skills, suggestions, encouragement and all around cheerleading. Aria, besina, coloredink, and zwaluw - a thousand thanks! I couldn't have done it without you, the bakerstreet gang. 
> 
>  
> 
> One final note. There is no major character death in this fic. Go forth and enjoy.

 

 

 

 

**THREE TIMES SHERLOCK HOLMES LIVED FOR JOHN WATSON, AND ONE TIME HE GAVE HIS LIFE FOR HIM:**

 

 

 

 

**1\. The Dark Wizard**

 

 

The sound of the waterfall thunders behind them. The Reichenbach Falls. Beautiful. Majestic. Dramatic.  

 

 

Deadly. 

 

 

Sherlock understands why Moriarty chose this venue.

  
  
  


“So Sherlock, what will it be?” The nasally voice intrudes on Sherlock’s thoughts, unpleasant and unwelcome. “Will you join forces with me? Unleash a cleansing war upon all the Mudbloods in our society? I promise you that your three little friends will be left alone. All of them are purebloods, after all.  Not a Slytherin among them, but you can’t have everything, now can you? At least none of them are Hufflepuffs. Can you imagine?”

  
  
  


“I would rather die than join you,” Sherlock sneers. “I won’t have my friends, much less the entire wizarding world, believing that I betrayed everything we’ve fought for.”

  
  


Moriarty nods. “So be it, then. Wands at the ready.” He flourishes eleven inches of mahogany (one thestral tail hair included), adopting a duelling stance. 

  
  


Sherlock spreads his arms, both hands empty. “Take your best shot.”

  
  


Moriarty’s lip curls. His eyes flash dangerously. “Are you really going to make me do it? Are you so ordinary that you’ll make it this easy for me? You really are a killjoy, aren’t you?”

  
  


Sherlock shrugs. “If the alternatives are to either join you or watch my friends die, then this is the only choice.”

  
  


“How positively  _ sacrificial.  _ All right, then. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I  _ always  _ follow through on my threats.”

  
  
  


Sherlock wants to avoid dying, of course, if at all possible. He’s perfectly  _ willing  _ to die, if it comes down to it. One life for three is more than a fair trade, and one he’s perfectly willing to succumb to. One consulting detective in exchange for one landlady, one Auror and one Healer. Granted, there’s only  _ one  _ consulting detective in the world, whereas there’s ten a galleon of the other three, but the world would just have to make do. 

  
  


But the survival of all four of them would be the optimal outcome. Then he would be around to continue providing rent for Mrs Hudson, apprehending criminals for Lestrade, and for John ….

  
  


Sherlock flinches against an unexpected swell of pain.  _ John.  _

  
  
  


Sherlock and John didn’t know each other at Hogwarts. Five years separated them in age, and for young boys that was an insurmountable gap. Their paths never crossed; they were never in the same classes nor participated in the same activities.  But when they became flatmates two years ago, there was an instant connection between them. It was as if they had known each other their entire lives.  And for the past few months, they were inching ever closer to something more intimate than friendship. If their path remained uninterrupted, Sherlock had no doubt where it would have led.

  
  


But then the dark wizard Moriarty raised his ugly head, inexplicably focussing all of his mad obsession onto Sherlock. It stopped being fun ages ago, when his friends became ensnared along with himself.  

  
  


Now Sherlock means to put an end to it and to Moriarty, once and for all; hopefully without himself dying in the process. He means to give him and John the chance that Moriarty is hell-bent on denying them. There’s a risk that John won’t forgive him, but if Sherlock is dead there’ll be no chance at all. 

  
  
  


Sherlock lets his face slacken, an expression of utter resignation settling over his features.  He closes his eyes, gathering all of his mental strength. Muttering this particular curse under one’s breath would do about as much damage as a warm summer breeze. He can’t risk being heard, and yet he needs as much intensity and feeling behind it as he can muster, especially against a foe as mighty as Moriarty. Sherlock’s mind is a powerful weapon, razor sharp, and he knows that he can direct his thoughts with enough force to do the job.

  
  


It seems that taking the time to master wandless magic and nonverbal spells all those years ago will now bear fruit. 

  
  


A split second before Moriarty opens his mouth to yell the words, Sherlock forces all of his intention behind the phrase as it reverberates inside his skull. 

  
  
  


**_“AVADA KEDAVRA!”_ **

  
  
  


Two flashes of green light shoot forth from opposite directions. One hits its mark, sending the Dark Wizard tumbling off the cliff’s edge, a look of surprise frozen on his dead face. The other one misses its target, but only just. Sherlock dodges the curse but in the process slips on the wet stones beneath his feet. His arms pinwheel desperately as he loses purchase with solid ground. He has just enough presence of mind to pull his wand (nine inches, oak with a phoenix feather core) from his pocket and toss it to the side before he plummets into the abyss. 

  
  


He’s halfway to the bottom of the chasm before the panic dissipates enough for him to picture his destination clearly in his mind. He disapparates from midair with a resounding  _ crack. _

  
  


_ *** _

  
  


He manifests in the Stranger’s Room. Having a Squib for a brother who has managed to embed himself into the Muggle world has turned out to be very advantageous indeed. Who would think to look for a missing, presumed dead wizard here? Cloaked in anonymity, Sherlock will be able to track down the rest of Moriarty’s organization unhindered. It was a stroke of genius on Mycroft’s part to house Sherlock’s base of operations within a Muggle club.

  
  


Mycroft catches him as he stumbles forward. “Mycroft,” Sherlock croaks.

  
  


“Easy, little brother,” Mycroft says gently as he guides Sherlock over to the sofa. Sherlock slumps into the cushions as if he is a puppet whose strings have just been cut. Mycroft pours him a hefty amount of scotch and presses the tumbler into his hand. Sherlock’s fingers curl instinctively around the glass. His hand trembles as he brings it to his mouth and swallows it all in one gulp.

  
  


“Tell me,” Mycroft prods softly. “Are your friends safe?”

  
  


Sherlock’s head jerks up and down. 

  
  


“Moriarty is dead?”

  
  


“Yes. The Curse hit him, and he fell into the waterfall, but not before he cast the same curse at me.  When the Aurors check our wands, they’ll find that the Killing Curse was the last one to issue from his, but they’ll find no such evidence on mine.”

  
  


“Leading them to conclude that he killed you and that your body was swept away by the falls. When they find  _ his  _ body, they’ll chalk it up to an accident as he attempted to flee. You’ll both be presumed dead. Elegant. Just make sure that you actually remain alive for the duration of your mission. No unnecessary risks, Sherlock. I mean it.”

  
  


Sherlock’s eyes flash as he hands his empty glass to his brother. “Oh, don’t worry. Living well is the best revenge, and I fully intend on returning to John when this is over and doing just that.”

  
  


***

  
  


A month later,  Sherlock stands out of sight behind an oak tree as he listens to John plead at his memorial plaque.  “Please, Sherlock; one more miracle, for me. Don’t. Be. Dead.  Could you…. Just stop it. Stop this.”

  
  


Sherlock swallows hard.  Despite himself, he is moved by John’s speech. Right then and there, he makes a vow to himself.  He will survive this mission. He will return one day, and present John with the miracle he asked for. Whatever it takes, whatever happens….he will be there for John. Always.

 

  
  
  
  
**2\. The Good Wife**

  
  
  
  


 

Theoretically, Sherlock knows that the Sectumsempra curse is the most vicious one in existence, outside of the Unforgivables, in terms of physical damage and intensity of pain inflicted. Nothing, however, could have prepared him for the practical experience. Not to mention the emotional trauma caused by the fact that it’s John own  _ wife  _ who casts it at him.

  
  


When she threatens to kill him, it doesn’t occur to him that she will actually go through with it. He chalks it up to her panic and desperation. This is  _ Mary _ , after all. Not only is she his best friend’s wife; she’s also Sherlock’s  _ friend. _

  
  


Sherlock never saw  _ this  _ coming. As always, he misses the obvious. The Killing Curse isn’t the only spell that can kill. It’s just the one that can do so painlessly.

  
  


This is not painless. 

  
  
  


If he doesn’t die from blood loss first, it’ll be the shock that kills him. He has to find some way to control the pain.

  
  


The unbearable, excruciating pain.

  
  


He’s aware of himself screaming, although if it’s out loud or merely in his head he can’t tell. He retreats into his mind castle as deep as he can go, trying to flee the agony that rips through his body. He’s never been to the dungeons before, but that’s where he heads in his desperation. As he descends the staircase, he’s vividly reminded of the path he trod as a student at Hogwarts down into the Potions classroom. Some of his best memories are in that classroom, as the subject fascinated him and he soaked up the knowledge like a sponge. 

  
  


However, rather than the relief he was hoping for, who should he run into down there but Moriarty, wrapped up in chains and a strait jacket, leering at Sherlock like a lunatic. He taunts Sherlock endlessly about pain, heartbreak, and loss. Sherlock is overwhelmed with memories of the fallout from his faked death: coming back to find John moved out of their shared flat, engaged to Mary, angry and bitter about being deceived. Expecting to be welcomed back with open arms but instead finding that everyone except himself had moved on. 

  
  


Pain. Heartbreak. 

  
  


**_Loss._ **

  
  
  


Suddenly, Sherlock feels a reassuring presence at his side. A warm palm touches his brow and a gentle yet urgent voice calls out his name. Despite the gravity of the situation, relief courses through Sherlock’s veins like a draught of felix felicis. The rejection is all in the past; John forgave him and returned to his side solving crimes, incorporating and including him into his new life with Mary. John accompanied him here to Magnussen’s lair, backing him up with unswerving loyalty, just like in the old days. John is _here._ John is a Healer.

  
  


John will save him.

  
  
  


Except something must have gone wrong. Maybe John arrived at his side too late. Maybe Sherlock already lost too much blood. Because something definitely doesn’t feel right. He’s slipping out of John’s grasp, a weight on his chest as he sinks back down into the cellar of his mind. The last thing he hears before losing consciousness again is John barking out in panic, “Sherlock! We’re losing you!”

  
  


_ You’ve already lost me, John,  _ Sherlock’s mind supplies helpfully as he floats into oblivion.  _ You’re Mary’s, now. When someone wants you dead so badly, it hardly seems good manners to argue. You chose her, not me, so I’m letting go. I’m letting  _ you  _ go.  _

  
  


He hears Moriarty’s voice in the background. He can vaguely make out the words; something about loving being dead, that nobody bothers you…. Something about people crying, John crying buckets and buckets….. Something about that  _ wife _ of his, about letting him down….

  
  


_ John Watson is definitely in danger….. _

  
  
  


Sherlock’s metaphorical eyes pop open. His mind scrambles around for the clues that he knows he observed about Mary but either discounted, trivialised, or outright ignored. 

  
  


_ Clever _

  
  


_ Disillusioned _

  
  


_ Only Child _

  
  


_ Secret Tattoo _

  
  


_ Liar _

  
  
  
  
  
  


_ Tattoo _

  
  


**_Secret_ ** _ Tattoo _

  
  
  
  


_ Secret Tattoo  =  Dark Mark _

  
  
  
  


Lord Voldemort’s inner circle bore the Dark Mark.

  
  


Moriarty co-opted the same idea for his followers, branding those closest to him with a similar type of mark.

  
  


After Voldemort’s death, the Dark Marks faded into barely noticeable scars. However, they never completely disappeared. Former Death Eaters would always bear evidence of their former lives, no matter how diminished the markings became. 

  
  


Sherlock has no doubt the same type of thing happened with Moriarty’s followers. 

  
  


Mary’s secret tattoo could very well be evidence of a very sordid past - one that she would be desperate to keep Sherlock and John from discovering. 

  
  


She hexed Sherlock to keep him from learning the truth. Might she feel just as threatened by John? Might she seek to eliminate that threat as well?

  
  


Sherlock cannot let that happen.

  
  


Strengthened with new resolve, Sherlock ignores Moriarty’s pleas for him to  _ just stay dead already _ , and claws his way back to life through sheer willpower. He died once trying to keep John safe; he’ll be damned if he lets that sacrifice go to waste by letting him remain in danger. 

  
  


Mary better wrap up warm; there’s an east wind coming.

 

  
  
**3\. The Dementor’s Kiss**

  
  
  


There aren’t supposed to be any Dementors left in Britain. That  doesn’t negate the fact that there is one currently hovering in front of Sherlock as he stands on the pavement outside of their Drumnadrochit hotel.

  
  


Sherlock has never seen a real Dementor before. He obviously knows all about them in theory - they were part of the curriculum for the Defense Against the Dark Arts class. He’s memorised all the facts about them - their history, methods of attack, how to defend against them - but meeting one face to face is an altogether different cauldron of doxies.

  
  


At least there’s only one, and not a whole flotilla of them. That doesn’t stop Sherlock from wishing that John had come with him during his spur of the moment urge to collect soil samples along the River Ness. He could use some backup against this foe.

  
  


They’re not even on a case. They’re on holiday, an honest to goodness holiday, just him and John. Sherlock once expressed that he had never been to Loch Ness nor Urquhart Castle, and John, being the true Scotsman that he is, was mortally offended. 

  
  
  


_ “Sherlock, are you really telling me that during your entire seven years at Hogwarts, you never once bothered to check out Loch Ness?” _

  
  


_ Sherlock gives him a blank look. “Why would I?” _

  
  


_ “Because…. Sherlock. It’s only twenty miles from Hogsmeade. With your natural curiosity, how could you have never explored the mystery that is Nessie?” _

  
  


_ “Nessie?” _

  
  


_ John throws up his hands in exasperation. “The Loch Ness Monster?” _

  
  


_ Sherlock scoffs. “John, really. That’s just an old Muggle superstition. There’s nothing there to explore.” _

  
  


_ After that conversation (argument), John insists on a proper getaway in order to explore the ‘quaint town’, as he calls it. Sherlock finds the timing suspect and accuses John of excess sentiment, given that it had only been a month prior that the two of them finally embarked on something of a --- non-platonic relationship. _

  
  


_ John just smiles sweetly and sends their owl off with a reservation slip tied to its talon. _

  
  
  
  


They’ve now been here for two days, a full two weeks stretching out before them with no schedule, no timetable and no deadlines. It has been idyllic so far. Exploring this new facet of their relationship has been -- educational, to say the least. Spending hours in bed just mapping each other’s skin with fingers and tongue, walking hand in hand along the loch at sunset, gazing up at the stars from their balcony at midnight….

  
  


Of course it was too good to last. When during Sherlock’s life has it ever been any different?

  
  
  


Sherlock lifts his chin and attempts to radiate defiance as he raises his wand against the Dementor.  Immediately a sense of fatigue washes over him. It’s a mild July night (early morning, really) and yet he's suddenly chilled to the bone. The street is deserted, completely empty of both vehicle and foot traffic. Just a moment ago the area was brightly lit with street lamps and a full moon; now everything looks dull and muted. He blinks in an attempt to keep the darkness encroaching along the edges of his vision at bay. He’s only mildly successful.

  
  
  


The Dementor inches closer, skeletal arms reaching out. Sherlock can hear the rattling of its breath. His arm trembles with the effort of keeping his wand aloft. His mind desperately tries to fend off the despair he feels settling over him. He closes his eyes as his worst memory attacks from within.

  
  
  


_ “Kill him, Watson. That’s an order.” _

  
  


_ Sherlock stares into John’s dead eyes as his best friend raises his wand in response to Moran’s Imperius Curse.  He sees no recognition in those eyes, no flicker of emotion. No shade of regret, just pure indifference. The horrible thought occurs to him that if John tries hard enough, if he really wants to, he can resist the Curse - shake it off like the legendary Harry Potter did. Apparently John’s feelings for him aren’t strong enough, aren’t enough motivation, for him to disobey. Sherlock isn’t important enough for him to make the extraordinary effort.  _

  
  


_ Sherlock knows those thoughts are illogical. Harry Potter was an extreme circumstance, cultivated by Dumbledore for a specific purpose. John has no control over himself right now; his will has been completely subsumed. The truth doesn’t stop Sherlock’s chest from clenching, or the despair and resignation from seeping into his bones and paralyzing him. He’s going to die today, by the hand of the best man he’s ever known; by the hand of the man he loves beyond reason. And now John will never know. _

  
  
  
  
  


Sherlock almost lets the hopelessness consume him - almost. He can feel the icy fingers of the Dementor touch his cheek and the cold breath against his brow. His eyes are still closed, but he can sense the Dementor leaning over him and preparing to suck the soul right out of him. He almost lets it -- 

  
  
  


Then his logical brain reasserts itself, wresting control away from the hooded entity. The memory that he’s been stuck in might be his worst, but it wasn’t the end of his story. The best memory was yet to be created.  Sherlock and John made it through that scenario, intact and alive, and went on to live more of life and to eventually fall in love. Sherlock’s happiest memory takes shape in his mind, dutifully replacing the other. 

  
  
  


_ The sun slants through the window of Sherlock’s bedroom, alighting on John’s hair and turning the strands golden like sheaves of wheat. Sherlock watches him as he sleeps within the circle of Sherlock’s arms, safe and loved. The sweat from the night’s activities cools on their bodies. The afterglow embraces them both. Sounds of Baker Street stirring to life are soothing, lending familiarity to the new emotional journey they have embarked upon. Comfort and security surround Sherlock as anticipation coils in his belly. He drops a kiss on the nape of John’s neck. John stirs, turns around and greets Sherlock with amazing blue eyes and a brilliant smile. He leans forward and captures Sherlock’s lips in a sweet, lingering kiss -  _

  
  
  


Sherlock wants to make more of those memories with John, starting immediately after he gets rid of this current enemy.  Determination floods his entire being. His posture shifts from slumped to ramrod straight.

  
  


He opens his eyes.

  
  
  


**_“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”_ **

  
  
  
  
  


***********

  
  
  
  
  


**+1   Living Sacrifice**

  
  
  
  


Sherlock is unaccountably nervous. He’s proclaimed a vow publicly once before, in a room full of dozens of people; this time should be no different. So why is he sweating profusely when just moments ago he had been complaining about the chill in the air? He tugs at his heavily starched collar, grimacing at his image in the mirror. His tie is crooked. Is it crooked? Why is it crooked? Mycroft had adjusted it for him mere moments ago. And where is his best man? Isn’t Lestrade supposed to be in here with him, distracting him with boring minutiae to prevent him from bolting out the door?

  
  


Scratch that. It’s  _ John  _ who should be running away and never looking back, finally coming to his senses and realising that he’s making an enormous mistake by joining his life with a reckless madman who will probably eventually get them both killed.

  
  


Is that what this is about? Has Sherlock been waiting for the other shoe to drop? Does he subconsciously expect John to come striding through the door at any moment, proclaiming that the wedding’s off, did Sherlock really expect him to go through with it, ha ha the joke’s on him -- 

  
  
  


He jumps when he feels the pressure of a hand on his shoulder, barely suppressing a scream. He twists around to glare at the culprit, mouth opening to let loose with a scathing admonition.

  
  
  


He’s brought up short with surprise.

  
  


“John!”

  
  


“Hey.” John smiles softly. He takes a few steps back and holds out his hands in offering.  Sherlock responds by placing both of his in John’s. His partner’s palms are warm and dry, rough and chapped yet radiating comfort. 

  
  


John spreads their arms apart and tilts his head. “You,” he says breathlessly, “are the most gorgeous thing I have ever laid eyes on. Are you sure that you want to settle with me as your husband? Last chance to back out. In another hour you’ll be stuck with me for good.”

  
  


Sherlock feels the heat creeping up his neck and onto his face. He swallows hard. Overcome with emotion, he attempts to mitigate it with humour. 

  
  


“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

  
  


John smirks. “That’s always worked in the past. Can’t imagine that changing anytime soon. And I wouldn’t want it to. That massive ego of yours is well deserved. ‘Sherlock Holmes, the wizard who vanquished James Moriarty.’ No small feat, that. Your fame is second only to Harry Potter.”

  
  


Sherlock doesn’t tell John that everything he’s done his whole life, including defeating Moriarty, has been in service of the man standing before him. His entire reason for being has been to give his life up as an offering at the altar of John Watson. It’s been unspoken up to this point, something that’s always been true but never acknowledged by either party. 

  
  


That’s all about to change today.

  
  


“John, I really don’t think - “

  
  


“No.” John places a finger on Sherlock’s lips, effectively silencing him. “I know you’ve been in here for the past hour, panicking, letting your mind run away with itself. You’re your own worst enemy, do you know that? No, listen.”  John takes both of Sherlock’s hands in his own, and brings them up to his lips. He places a kiss on the knuckles. “You need to trust that you’re enough for me. Hell, you’re my entire world, Sherlock. Have been for ages. I’m not going anywhere. We’re just making it official now, yeah?”

  
  


Sherlock nods slowly, not trusting himself to speak without embarrassing himself. He feels exactly the same way about John. How did he get so lucky?

  
  


If he were thinking rationally, Sherlock would chastise himself for such phrasing. Luck obviously has nothing to do with it. He and John have a history; they have built upon the foundation of their friendship, and their current relationship has evolved organically from there. But Sherlock is not thinking rationally. He is currently thinking with his heart, and his heart is telling him that he’s the luckiest soul on earth.

  
  


Maybe in the entire universe.

  
  
  


At that moment Lestrade knocks on the door before entering. “It’s time,” he says, throwing a wink at John before striding over to Sherlock and making sure every wrinkle is smoothed and every hair in place. Sherlock rolls his eyes in John’s direction. John grins and quietly slips out to finish preparations with his own best man, Stamford.

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock and John face each other as they stand in front of Mycroft, friends and family looking on in the background.  Fairies hover above their heads, holding aloft a banner with moving images depicting the history of their shared lives so far, from first meeting at St Mungo’s to last night’s rehearsal dinner. The garden surrounding them is lovely; flitterby moths and honeybees zip around the colourful blossoms. The sun lends bright cheer to the scene, offering up warmth to keep the slight chill in the air at bay.  

  
  


The two grooms notice none of this, because they have eyes only for each other. They are both professing vows for the second time, but that doesn’t make them any less meaningful. For Sherlock, he’s basically renewing his last vow, although now he makes it to only one person. The one person who matters the most.

  
  


And this time, someone offers him one in return. 

  
  
  
  


****

  
  
  


Sherlock dedicates the next thirty years of his life to John Watson. 

  
  


He considers it time well spent.

  
  
  
  
  


**THE END**

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The phrase 'cauldron of doxies' in lieu of 'kettle of fish' was brought to you by Zwaluw. Aren't they clever? :D


End file.
